


Good at Repairs

by bold_seer



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, POV Stephen Strange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21760720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/pseuds/bold_seer
Summary: “Calling it now, Doc,” says Tony, voice not giving anything away. “Transport, check. Engineering, check. Fireworks, check. Before robots replace people, magic makes us useless.”
Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36
Collections: IronStrange Secret Santa 2019





	Good at Repairs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StrangeMischief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeMischief/gifts).



> For the prompts: angst + ornaments

His hands are bare, and cold, as they often are, even when magic flows through them. He needs new gloves (new hands, a new body), less clumsy than the pair he isn’t wearing. Though Stephen’s no longer in the habit of buying himself gifts, occasion or not, New York can be damp and cold. This late December evening, a sugary fine layer of snow covers the ground. Stephen only technically arrived from the outside. From the outside world, yes. By building a bridge between the New York Sanctum and the Avengers Facility, bringing those two separate spheres momentarily closer. He steps out of the portal, and finds himself next to a Christmas tree, with garlands and various ornaments, superhero themed. Thor. The Hulk. Spider-Man. No Doctor Strange, of course, but the _real_ omission -

Red and gold pieces point the way to the missing figurine. Too tacky for the Stephen of old. A man who collected sports cars, which were never red, and watches, worth more than their weight in gold. Who kept a grand piano on display, a decorative object more than an instrument to be played. After all, his hands were meant for greater work. Not tacky enough for Stark, he would’ve said. But it’s Iron Man, and something about the figurine captures his character perfectly. It hurts, seeing him like that.

Stephen bends down to pick up the biggest parts. The helmet, an arm. His hands tremble, not from the cold. With enough focus and energy, maybe more than he has to give, the pieces fall in, figurine made whole again. Any fractures exist on the inside, unseen.

At a huff, he nearly drops the ornament. He looks up, and there’s Tony, watching him from the sofa. Hair messy, dressed more casually than Stephen has seen him. In person. Pyjama pants, T-shirt that says Stark Tech, letters like Star Trek, a legal nightmare. Stephen feels the sudden self-consciousness, hot on his face. Even with the informal, permanent invitation to drop in, whenever, portals _are_ an intrusion. They’re not in a particularly private area of the compound. Stephen is obviously there for him. Did Tony imagine meeting Stephen like this? Does his own strange bashfulness have to do with being caught unawares? Stephen carefully places the figurine, in his hand, on the nearest surface. As if he’s getting rid of evidence.

“Calling it now, Doc,” says Tony, voice not giving anything away. “Transport, check. Engineering, check. Fireworks, check. Before robots replace people, magic makes us useless.”

“It never could,” Stephen replies, too quietly, too sincerely for a joke. Revealing that magic doesn’t have all the answers. That Stephen doesn’t hold any. Anymore. Tearing off the layers of mystery, there lies the plain truth. “Nothing I do could ever make you redundant.”

But Iron Man would fly, without _some meddling wizard_. Guilt isn’t new, but sometimes it’s unbearable. Stephen is excellent at misdirection, avoidance, repression, denial. ( _“No need to stay,” he informs Tony, more sharply than he intended to. There’s a chance, repairing the damage, not yet a rift. Chance of something else, slipping through his fingers. Stephen is too proud, too stubborn, too tired to apologise. When he also hurts. He does well on his own._ ) “Thought you had things to do. People to see.” Better people, or people better for Tony. 

“People to do, things to see,” Tony counters, wry smile an echo of his own past. “Drink? Champagne is obvious. Don’t strike me as a beer guy, but I’ve been wrong, on occasion.” He studies Stephen, makes up his mind about something. “Doctor Strange goes to Wizarding School. Nothing about you is obvious. Or everything is.”

Stephen shakes his head. He’s still standing, tall and awkward. Settles on an armchair, singled out.

“Future’s coming on. We made it. But I can’t be around people.” Tony speaks in clipped tone, admitting uncomfortable truths, one by one. He clenches the fist of his uninjured arm. “It’s pretty bad.” Must be, for Tony to share. He’s entitled to vent. Stephen should take the verbal hits, not avoid them. Better friends can be a worse option. Stephen lives with Wong, part of the time. The list of things he hasn’t told him keeps growing. (How difficult it is to cast a spell. The toll it takes.)

“We fixed it.” Tony motions between them. “You. And me. To be clear, on the record, just so you know, I don’t blame you for saving the world. I’m done with everything else. The part where people expect Iron Man to -” Help them with their collective trauma? A man who struggles with his own demons, more than a dash of irony. Tony shrugs, _hell if I know, poster boy for mental health_.

Where does that leave him? Tony wants to be needed. But there isn’t enough of Tony Stark, not for everyone who thinks they’re owed something.

Stephen has learned empathy (if not from scratch, at least practiced it recently - that weak finger, which can barely hold down a key on its own) the hard way. That hasn’t magically transformed him into a nice, patient person. He was never good company. Although he’s ashamed of how he treated Christine, he’s not good company now either, empty and exhausted. It would be irresponsible to leave Tony. He’s not a doctor, in any way that counts, but he _is_ a doctor. He feels a responsibility towards Tony.

If Tony asked, or ordered him to, _made_ him stay, Stephen would. There are concerns. Stephen’s a walking trigger, magic and memory. Not good at comfort, giving or receiving. Mutual support. But Tony has been visiting him. There’s a growing connection (attraction?) between them, but he doesn’t know where it could lead. How selfish he can allow himself to be.

His inner conflict must show on his face, in the way he holds himself tightly. Tony leans towards him, manner entirely different, relaxed and reassuring. “Secondhand reports: it’s cold outside. Not kicking you out, like you’re the Little Match - I’m not that much of an asshole. Unless your quota is full.”

Tony has been honest, about his own vulnerabilities, which are never easy to share. More honest than Stephen’s been with him. It’s not that he wants to burden Tony, or claims to speak for him. They can’t compare traumatic experiences. And yet, there’s the all-consuming need to disclose some things. Not _that_. Moments that shaped Stephen, made him into who he is, without anyone else witnessing them. “Before Titan.” He checks with Tony, grim, but determined. Continues, before he regrets saying anything. “I did something. That no one else has done, or knows about. Well.” The Cloak, guarding the Sanctum. It seemed only fair to meet Tony alone, unassisted.

“I, uh, went through -” Pain, death, nothing. Try again, again, again. Failure, failure. Success. “The same moment, over and over.”

Tony nods, evidently making parallels. Using the Time Stone on Titan. His own nightmares and flashbacks.

“Sometimes I’m there.” Sometimes not. Millions of memories take up so much space that there’s no room left for him. Stephen floats out of his body, to breathe. “My body is somewhere else.” It doesn’t matter, none of it’s real. “Sooner or later, it resets, a video game.” Alone in the darkness, none of it matters. He’s insignificant, but prevails. “It’s not the same, I’m not.” He struggles to explain, these are _literal_ experiences. “I don’t have PTSD.”

Tony gives him a significant look. “And I’m not depressed.”

Unhappy with either implication, Stephen frowns. Music usually grounds him. Think of a song, any song. His mind is silent.

“Hey,” Tony commands. “Eyes on me.” Which isn’t difficult to obey, because Tony is _there_ , beautiful and alive.

Stephen answers with a grimace. “You were the one hiding.”

“Yup. Avoiding people.” Tony’s gaze is frighteningly intense, offering no escape. Some concern, a pinch of amusement. His energy completely changed by now, confidence on like armour. He asks, almost carelessly, in passing, “Wong waiting up for you?”

He’s definitely not.

“Good.” Before Stephen knows it, Tony stands over him. Hand reaching out, as if he means to touch the Eye of Agamotto, which isn’t there, so the hand drops to Stephen’s waist. Casually in charge, waiting for Stephen to push it away, if he disapproves. “I know a great way to spend the time.”

The warmth of Tony’s palm, his touch, stirs something in him, like magic. Through the layers, his own skin feels warmer. It’s _shocking_. That Tony would want, that _he_. Maybe Stephen can serve as something, for Tony, even if he’s not important. A distraction. Be whatever Tony wants, or needs, to feel better. Be useful. Except when Tony regards him, it’s not with indifference or pity - rote desire - but real _heat_ , open curiosity and interest. As he moves his hand up Stephen’s chest, Tony tells him, gently knowing, “Don’t disappear inside your head.”


End file.
